I didn't expect Andre to look so… vulnerable. Not after the speech. Not after all that power and composure he carried like a second skin. But here he was — standing in front of me, voice low, eyes searching. No arrogance. No distance. Just a man who finally wanted to face the quiet between us.
"If we can't talk about the past," he said, "can we at least… try to be friends?"
The word friends sounded too small for what we'd been. But too big for what we were now. I didn't answer immediately. I looked at him — really looked. He still had that same intensity in his eyes. But now it was laced with something heavier. Guilt, maybe. Regret. Something he wouldn't have admitted back then.
"You remember what the contract said, don't you?" I said gently.
He nodded once. "No emotional attachment. Strictly professional."
"And you broke it."
"I did," I whispered. "But so did you. You just didn't know it until it was over."
That hit him. He swallowed hard, jaw flexing.
"Sandra... I let too many things happen I should've stopped. I let my mother speak to you like you were disposable." His voice broke slightly. "I treated you like something temporary, when I should've fought for you. Even if I didn't know what we were yet."
I looked away, blinking slowly. Not to cry — just to stay grounded.
"I'm not holding onto it, Andre. Truly."
"Then why won't you let me fix it?" he asked, voice tightening. "Let me take you somewhere — just somewhere quieter. Let me explain everything. Apologize the way I should have."
I met his eyes again. He looked tired under all that polish.
"Because I don't need closure," I said softly. "Not anymore."
He stared at me like I'd just taken something he didn't know he still wanted.
"You'd rather be strangers?"
I shook my head.
"No. I'd rather be… free."
Andre stepped forward, desperation barely held in check.
"Sandra, I can't change what I did. But I can be better now. Let me at least try. Let me be someone in your life who shows up — even if it's just as a friend."
"Andre—"
And then came the voice that cut the air like perfume and steel.
"Darling!"
We both turned.
Bianka? Wasn't she the governor's daughter?
She glided in like she'd rehearsed her entrance, her gown shimmering like a warning. She barely acknowledged me before sliding an arm through Andre's and planting a kiss on his cheek.
"The Governor's been asking for you. You promised me a dance, remember?" she cooed, loud enough for those nearby to hear.
Andre's entire body went rigid.
I stepped back, calm as ever.
"You should go," I said with a small, polite smile. "Duty calls."
His eyes shot to mine — wide, pleading. But I was already turning. And this time, he let me walk away.
❁ ❁ ❁
I didn't wait to hear what Andre said to her. Whatever it was, it wasn't meant for me. I moved through the ballroom with a quiet elegance, each step measured. No one noticed at first — too busy dancing, drinking, networking — but I saw a few eyes flicker my way. A couple guests waved, probably hoping to ask for another business card or compliment my pastries again. But I didn't stop. Not for that. Not for anyone.
As I passed the entryway, I caught sight of myself in one of the mirrored pillars — hair still perfectly done, makeup flawless, dress hugging me like confidence itself. And yet... there was that flicker in my eyes.
A tiny ghost of the girl I used to be.
The one who once stood in Andre Dawson's penthouse, heart in hand, begging him not to let her go.
She was gone now. Quietly buried under everything I'd built with my own hands.
Sweet Haven. My children. My name.
And that was when it hit me.
I hadn't told him.
Not about Liam. Not about Lily.
Not a single word.
I had stood there, face to face with the only man they'd ever asked about — and I'd said nothing.
I told myself it was self-preservation. Boundaries. Strength. But now, with the night air pressing cool against my skin, it felt a little like cowardice.
I'd said I didn't need closure. That I wanted freedom.
But maybe… just maybe… I owed him more than silence.
Maybe I owed my children the truth.
I stepped into the sleek black car waiting at the curb. The driver opened the door without asking. I slid in, exhaling slowly.
Not because I was tired.
Because I was proud.
I had walked into that room being seen as the owner of Sweet Haven, not anyone's ex-anything.
And I had walked out not because I was rejected… But because I knew better now.
Love isn't a memory. It's a choice.
And tonight — I chose me.
But tomorrow?
Tomorrow, I might choose truth.
A beat passed as the car pulled into motion, gliding smoothly away from the glittering chaos of the Dawson ballroom. My fingers curled into the fabric of my dress, the weight of the evening pressing finally into my chest now that no one was watching.
I thought of his eyes again. The way they'd softened when he said my name. The way his voice had cracked — not with charm, not with manipulation, but with something real.
And just for a moment… the thought crept in.
What if he finds out?
What if he realizes the truth on his own?
What if he wants them?
The thought struck cold and fast, like a knife between ribs.
Would he try to take them from me?
Would his family — his mother — demand involvement? Try to buy their way into Liam and Lily's lives like they bought everything else?
I clenched my jaw and stared out the window, city lights blinking like distant warnings.
No. I wouldn't let that happen.
They were mine.
I raised them. I held them through fevers, through nightmares, through questions like "Why don't we have a daddy?"
I built Sweet Haven with one hand and held them steady with the other.
I wasn't afraid of Andre. Not really.
But I was afraid of what truth could unearth before I was ready.
So, I would tell him. Someday.
But not because guilt whispered that I should.
Not because his eyes begged for something more.
Not because he offered to take me somewhere quiet.
I would tell him when I chose to.
When the timing wasn't clouded by dresses and chandeliers and women like Bianka brushing kisses onto his cheek like ownership.
When my heart was steady enough to open that door without risking everything I'd built on the other side.
Until then, the truth could wait.
And so could he.